You cannot find the centre Where we dance , where we play, Where life is still asleep Under the closed flower , Under the smooth shell Of eggs in the cupped nest That mock the faded blue Of your remoter heaven .

Is there a place here for the spirit ? Is there time on this brief platform for anything other than mind 's failure to explain itself?

To live in Wales is to be conscious at dusk of the spilled blood that went into the making of the wild sky

They left no books , Memorial to their lonely thought In grey parishes: rather they wrote On men's hearts and in the minds Of young children sublime words Too soon forgotten. God in his time Or out of time will correct this.

Poetry is that / which arrives at the intellect / by way of the heart.

somewhere within sight of the tree of poetry that is eternity wearing the green leaves of time .

I have nowhere to go. The swift satellites show The clock of my whole being is slow.